


acquiescence

by deadlybride



Series: zmediaoutlet [21]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Breathplay, Established Relationship, M/M, Manhandling, Mild Painplay, Season/Series 01, Size Difference, slight D/s
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-06
Updated: 2018-02-06
Packaged: 2019-03-14 14:28:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13592025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlybride/pseuds/deadlybride
Summary: On a boring spring night, Dean gets some fun out of needling Sam.





	acquiescence

**Author's Note:**

> Anon asked for: _the first time sam was able to successfully manhandle dean around because you're destined to kill us with size kink_

The only movie worth watching on a Tuesday night is on TNT, and it is totally shitty.

“I think that girl’s tits are actually bolted on,” Dean says, kinda fascinated. Sam hms noncommittally, from the other bed. “Seriously. They’re not even jiggling.”

“I’m sure they’ll jiggle plenty when she dies,” Sam says, absent-minded, and when Dean glances over—yes, sure enough, he’s just reading something on his laptop, all stretched out and bored-looking against the headboard.

“Spoilsport,” Dean says, but he can’t blame Sam. This movie is terrible. They’re in between hunts, just keeping an eye on the stupid Hell Hound website from the tulpa case a few weeks ago, and he’s been combing through obits and Sam’s been checking online news, but they haven’t found anything worth driving toward yet. Dean scratches his stomach, under his t-shirt, kicks his boots off the end of the mattress. He doesn’t mind the break, really, but—he’s _bored_.

The movie goes to commercial and he rolls off the bed, takes a piss, washes his hands and face. The room’s kind of small, dimly lit and a little dingy, but at least it’s got a mini-fridge. They’re down to the last four beers in the twelve-pack he brought back with the Chinese, and the way the night’s going Sam even did his part, more or less. Dean might as well kill ‘em. That, or break into the bottle of Jim Beam tucked into the Impala’s rear footwell—though that’s meant to be for first aid, really, and Sammy always bitches if they don’t have ready booze to splash over cuts. He grabs the beer. Always better to avoid the bitching. He hands Sam one of the cans and gets a mumbled thanks, though Sam doesn’t look away from his laptop, and Dean rolls his eyes, drops back onto his own bed and sprawls out, eyes on the TV. He could strip naked and dance around, but he’s not sure even that would pull geek-boy away from his computer.

“I think they might’ve gotten better actors if they’d gone to the local high school drama department,” he says, after a while. Sam grunts, and a sidelong look shows that he’s still just reading. Dean slurps at his beer, making as much noise as possible, and Sam finally picks his head up, even if it’s just to give him a _look_. Dean grins, wide as he can, and Sam rolls his eyes but does actually look at the TV. “Seriously,” Dean says. “Check this guy out. He sounds like he’s reading off a cue card.”

Sam frowns, pays attention. “...Wow,” he says, after a minute. “Hate to say it, but yeah. Wow.”

He cracks his own beer, sets the laptop aside. Dean smiles, watches the movie. It’s the standard sort of crappy slasher, and he actually had higher hopes because zombies were supposed to be involved, but it’s not even delivering on that. Sam laughs at some particularly bad dialogue and they both groan when the cop character mentions he’s retiring, and Dean says, “Okay, chug, that guy’s dead inside ten minutes,” and they knock back the rest of their beers, Sam gasping when he tosses the empty can onto the bedside table. Dean gets the last two, a pleasant fuzz settling behind his eyes. Sam’s relaxed, finally, all long and loose on his bed, and Dean licks his lips, settles back against the cheap particle-board headboard of his own bed, tilted a little so he can watch Sam, as much as he’s watching the TV.

Soon, it turns out that the hot chick with the immobile tits is actually a witch, or something. She goes off to a meeting with an older lady, who sounds like she’s doing Madeleine Khan’s accent from Blazing Saddles. “Ooh, German chick,” Dean says, grinning. “They’re always freaks.”

Sam snorts. “Pretty sure that’s only in porn, Dean,” he says. He tucks his hand behind his head, beer can resting on his flat stomach and dampening the cotton of his t-shirt, a little.

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean says. He’s too-warm, and he peels off his flannel shirt. Sam glances at him, back to the TV. “Just saying. She looks like she might be into that whips-and-feathers kind of love.”

Mid-swallow, Sam coughs. “Dude,” he manages, and wipes his mouth with the back of his wrist. He’s got a faint smear of pink rising up on his cheeks.

Dean licks his lips, again, bites the inside of his cheek. “Sorry, Sammy, didn’t mean to harm your virgin ears,” he says. Sam sends him a disbelieving look and Dean doesn’t bother holding back his grin anymore. “I guess that might be a little advanced for you, huh, kiddo?”

“Pretty rich from you, considering,” Sam says, dry, but he’s still pink, the color settling patchy in his cheeks and on his throat.

And—yeah, okay, so the stuff they get up to isn’t exactly PG. Dean feels his own face heating, but there’s no way he’s giving Sam the satisfaction. It has been a while, though—a few weeks, Dean realizes, before the tulpa, before they saw Dad again. His stomach turns over, unsettled in the way it always is when he thinks about Dad while Sam’s in the same room, long and flushed and making Dean think things he shouldn’t, but he swallows and blinks and turns away from that, deliberate, shoving it down.

He takes a deep breath, and then a deep swallow off his beer. “I get it, you know,” he says, putting on a fake-sympathetic voice. “I’m sure they didn’t have anything non-vanilla in study hall. I blame the education system, really.”

Sam’s brow furrows. “I can’t tell if you actually think there are S&M classes at college,” he says, a little mocking in that way Sam always gets when school comes up, but he’s looking right at Dean, still, even if he’s flushed even darker. The TV has gone to commercial again, and neither of them are paying it any attention.

“Nah, you only get that kind of stuff from practical experience,” Dean says, airy. He drains the rest of his beer and tosses it onto the table with the rest of the dead soldiers. He leans back on his bed, propped on his hands, and lets his legs spread out a little. Sam’s eyes flick down, over his chest and down to his crotch, and he’s not hard quite yet but he’s chubbing up, for sure, and he thinks Sam can see it. “Whips and feathers, Sammy. You clearly missed out on the fuzzy handcuffs. Too bad. It’s a lot of fun.”

Sam narrows his eyes. He knocks back another long swallow of beer and sets the can down with a clank, hard enough that a drip sloshes up and splats onto the table, and then he’s up, knocks Dean down to his back with a palm flat to the shoulder and Dean goes down with an _oof_ , and Sam lands on him but Dean’s quick, gets his leg wrapped around Sam’s and flips them so he’s on top, grinning. “What,” he says, “you think I didn’t see that coming, squirt?”

Sam huffs, and Dean props himself up to broadcast his victory a little more obviously—and Sam knocks his right arm out, so he lurches, and then Sam does something—twisty, leg worming between Dean’s and flipping them so Dean’s on his stomach, somehow, with Sam flat on top of his back, his forearm planted across Dean’s shoulders and his hips pressed in against Dean’s ass, holding him down, hard.

“How about that?” Sam says against the back of Dean’s ear, not even panting.

Dean rolls his eyes, and wriggles. “Yeah, yeah, gigantor limbs are cheating,” he says. Sam lets him up enough that he can eel around, turning underneath Sam’s body, and Sam stays right over the top of him, smiling down, the smug little shit. “I’m still totally right, though.” Sam blinks at him, confused, and Dean spreads his legs, folds his hands behind his head, puts on his shittiest grin. “Face it, Sammy. You wouldn’t know what to do with Frau Hilda over there if your life depended on it.”

“That what you want, Dean?” Sam says. He glances back at the TV, back to Dean, and his face is flushing up, again, but he’s staying close, right where Dean wants him. He lets his hips drop, into the cradle Dean’s making for him, and Dean has to suck in a breath at the weight hitting right where he wants it, Sam tight up against him, exactly what he wanted. Sam’s eyelids flutter, but he’s still looking right at Dean. “Whips and feathers?”

His voice is low, close, his breath beery and warm in Dean’s face. God, Dean wants him. “You don’t have it in you,” he says, and he’s still just teasing, really, just because it’s his job, because it’s fun to get a rise out of Sam at the best of times and even more fun when he’s bored and they’re dicking around, no stakes and nothing trying to hurt them, and now that Sam’s not a pure wreck, not like he has been, it’s such a relief to laugh, to let this be _fun_ , like it used to be sometimes when they were younger, before—just, before. Sam’s flushed and that’s how Dean likes him, hot-blooded and a little off-kilter, and Dean thinks, there’s still lube in his bag, they could screw around maybe, or maybe he could get Sam to blow him. That’s always worth all the pain-in-the-ass little brother shit he has to put up with.

Sam’s just staring, though, and he’s—he’s not smiling. The lamp isn’t putting out much light and there’s the bluish flickers of the TV spreading out behind Sam’s head, so Dean can’t see his face as well as he wants to, but he can see that much. He tries to shift his weight, but Sam’s hips are holding him down, still, their crotches lined up tight, and he gulps air, lets his mouth drop open. Sam’s eyes flick down, and then back up to hold Dean’s, and Dean says, “You don’t have it in you,” again—quiet, but he looks back and forth between Sam’s eyes, and when he tries to sit up a little Sam plants a hand on his chest, and he’s—big, bigger than Dean, and Dean’s crushed right back into the mattress. He sucks in breath, drags one hand down to wrap around Sam’s wrist. “Come on,” he says, stomach pooling hot and his dick aching up against Sam’s. “Come on, do it like you mean it, come on—”

Sam snaps Dean’s grip and grabs his wrists, yanks his arms up above his head, pinning them down high up on the mattress, high enough that his knuckles are brushing the particle board and his shoulders strain. Dean’s back arches, trying to stretch out for it, and his heels pull up involuntarily, his socks skidding in the polyester bedspread as his knees pull up around Sam’s hips. He can’t move beyond that, though, Sam’s weight heavy on his hips and his hands like iron at Dean’s wrists, and when Dean squirms Sam tightens his grip, hard enough that Dean flinches, says _fuck_ , sharp and unexpected, his hands spasming.

That’s going to bruise, he knows it, and Sam loosens his grip, pushes up just a little. “Shit, sorry,” he says, searching Dean’s face. He’s pink-cheeked, the blush streaking all the way down his throat and disappearing under the collar of his t-shirt, his eyes so dark Dean can’t see any color. Dean stares at him. “Did I hurt you?”

“Yeah,” Dean says. He means to sound pissed off but his voice is all—breathy. Sam’s dick is iron-hard, huge, pushing up against his own, and Dean’s balls pulse, his mouth goes dry. “Yeah, a little.”

He doesn’t move, and neither does Sam. Slowly, Sam tightens his hands again, grinding Dean’s wrists down into the bed at the same time he pushes with his hips, hard and tight enough that it _aches_ , and Dean—he doesn’t like pain, not like this, not really, but he groans anyway, something small and caught up close in his throat. Sam lets go of one of his wrists, snaps his hand down between them while Dean groans again at the blood surging back into his hand. Sam already has Dean’s belt open and he goes to work on his own, and so Dean brings his free hand down to help, gets his button undone and his zip down while Sam unsnaps the stupid button-fly on his own jeans, and Dean shoves at his waistband one-handed, tries to get his boxers out of the way, but Sam’s ahead of him and grabs Dean’s wrist again, pushes it back up to join his other hand and pins it, hard. Sam’s eyes are heavy, his mouth open, and Dean feels like his own face has got to be stupid as hell, shocky weird pulses rippling up his spine. Sam leaves his hand in place and Dean’s too turned inside-out to move it, and that leaves Sam free to reach down between them and palm Dean’s dick, his hand dry but hot and _big_ , god, he wraps all the way around the shaft and tugs, familiar grip from years and years of messing around just like this—only, no, not like this, not at all, and Dean still can’t move his right hand at all but he tangles his left into Sam’s t-shirt, pulses his hips up into Sam’s fist as much as he can, fuck, it feels so good. Sam swipes his thumb over the head where Dean’s already leaking, squeezes down at the base and tugs, up and up and up.

“Sammy,” Dean manages, and Sam leans in and kisses him, long stretch of muscle laying hard over Dean’s body, tongue shoving into his mouth with none of that careful thing Sam gets into, sometimes, and absolutely no patience. Dean scrunches his eyes closed, opens up for it, tugging Sam even closer so that he hears stitches pop in his t-shirt. Sam keeps tugging his dick, his grip tight and perfect and his grip on Dean’s other wrist tighter still, and Dean moans, can’t help it, loud and shocked directly into Sam’s mouth, loud like he usually only gets when he’s being fucked, and Sam groans right back before he pulls away. Dean forces his eyes open, almost dizzy, and Sam sucks in a breath and then rears back, gets up on his knees on either side of Dean’s thighs.

The sudden whoosh of air between them is cold and Dean’s hands flex, empty, his dick leaking hard up against his belly—and then Sam grabs him, flips him over between his legs like—nothing, easy like Dean’s some buck-ten chick he picked up at the library, and Dean curses into the mattress, tries to shove up onto his hands but Sam’s already on him, yanking his t-shirt off over his head and then shoving him back down again, his fingers digging into the waistband of Dean’s jeans, tugging down. Dean blinks at the bedspread, forearms planted under him, and then Sam’s got his jeans halfway down his thighs, and his boxers too, and there’s a jangle of metal from Sam’s belt, and then—then Sam spits, right onto Dean’s skin, hitting him on his bare ass, and then again, and—no, Sam’s not gonna—not even when they were most desperate have they ever spit-fucked. Dean knows how much that hurts. He’s not moving away. Sam’s fingers smear the wet down, trail over his hole and—down, further, slipping between his thighs, and Dean whispers _Sam_ into the mattress and then Sam grabs his left wrist, his right hip, yanks him up off the bed, and he braces on his elbow, knees pressed tight together and muscles wobbling in shocked anticipation, and then—oh, fuck, the blunt slick shove of Sam’s dick between his thighs, pushing past his hole and butting up against his balls, pushing _past_ , because Sam’s so goddamn big he’s not just fucking Dean’s thighs but fucking _through_ them, dragging hot over the sensitive skin, the buttons on his fly pressing in cold shocks against Dean’s ass, and Sam’s breathing hard against the back of his neck, not giving Dean time to adjust, shoving hard and hard and hard again.

He’s arranging Dean’s body to his satisfaction, pulls Dean’s left arm over so that they’re both hugging Dean’s chest, Dean’s arm cramped up close against himself and Sam holding him hard enough that he has to take short, shuddery little breaths, his hand almost numb from the tight grip. Sam’s other hand slips down, tucks under Dean’s hip and finds Dean’s dick, his balls, traps them tight against where the head of Sam’s dick is shoving insistent and heavy against them and oh, god, that just—winds everything tighter. It’s—he’s not even getting jerked off, not really, and he’s not really getting fucked, and it shouldn’t feel as good as it does. Sam pulls back enough to spit again, just another bit of wet, and then clamps his thighs closer around Dean’s, compresses the space he’s fucking even more, and Dean’s going to be chafed, his thighs almost sting from how hard Sam’s rubbing into him, but the pressure on his taint is incredible, Sam’s huge hand rubbing his dick distracting enough that he can’t even tell that it hurts, his balls swelling, drawing tight. Sam’s gigantic around him, against him, his breath hot against the back of Dean’s ear, his neck, his stupidly big gorgeous dick shoving again and again and, god, he wants it, he wants it in him, this is so close to fucking and Sam’s _hurting_ him and he wants it, he doesn’t care, he whispers almost breathless _come on, do it, just—fuck me, come on come on come on_ and Sam says, “Jesus Christ,” shocked against Dean’s skin. He unwraps his arm from Dean’s chest and Dean takes a huge heaving breath and Sam shoves his hand down between them, rears up just enough and jams his thumb against Dean’s hole, corkscrews in firm on the last bit of almost-dry spit and shoves hard up against Dean’s balls and squeezes Dean’s dick, everything a hard tight crush, and then Sam shoves his thumb straight in and Dean comes, cracked-open groaning, his hands fisting into the bedspread and his hips flinching between Sam’s two hands. Sam shoves his thumb in deeper, dry and aching and yanking Dean’s orgasm out of him like he’s got Dean on a damn crank. He pulls his dick back, finally, and while Dean’s shuddering he hears the unmistakable sound of Sam jerking off, the not-wet-enough tugging and Sam’s breath coming shaky and hard and the brush of knuckles fast and forceful against his bare skin and then Sam’s shooting, wet spurts hitting Dean’s ass, his back and thighs, and Sam pulls at Dean’s hole with his thumb hard enough to pull him open a little and there’s the blunt shove of his dick and the wet goes right up in him, some last weak spurt that hits right on target so that Dean’s whole body shivers, and it’s only then that Sam groans, loud, his big dick sitting flushed in the crack of Dean’s ass, spent and twitching.

Sam tugs his thumb out, finally. Dean shifts his hips, gets his elbows under him so he can prop up off the mattress and breathe, and he just pants, forehead still pressed against the bed, his skin lit up all over. He feels acutely where Sam’s dick still drags idly back and forth, not really shrinking down at all. His hole stings, just a little, and the skin on the inside of his thighs tingles, his taint and balls and dick so sensitive they hurt.

After a minute Sam takes in an audible, shuddery breath. His hands slide up Dean’s naked back, pushing up a steady line from his hips to his shoulders, smearing wet where he’s made Dean filthy. He rubs over Dean’s shoulderblades where they’re popping up, up to the back of his neck to rub small circles into the tense base of it. Dean groans. There’s a little huff, Sam’s thumbs stroking soft over his skin, and then his hands smooth over Dean’s shoulders, drag down over his biceps and then force their way under Dean’s forearms where they’re tucked against the bed, slide up to his wrists and tug them out, firm and undeniable. Dean lets him. He ends up with his chest flat on the bed, his wrists pinned again on either side of him next to his shoulders. He turns his head so he can breathe, rests his cheek flat on the bedspread. He keeps his eyes closed, keeps the room dark. The TV’s still on, ridiculously.

“Okay?” Sam says.

His voice is quiet, almost unsure. Almost. Dean doesn’t know what to say. He opens his eyes and looks back, over his shoulder, and Sam’s watching him, all his focus right on Dean, patchy flush all over his cheeks and throat. Dean shifts his hips and Sam—yeah, still big, his erection not gone down at all. Who knew that this is what would do it for him, more than anything else. He sucks a breath between his teeth, rocks easy in against Dean’s ass, and okay. Maybe he was wrong about Sammy.

Sam’s thumb drags over the skin on his wrist. It’s tingling, too, the skin reddened where he’s been wrenched around, and he lets his fingers curl lax against the ugly blanket. “I’m gonna have to wear long sleeves for a few days,” he says, finally. His voice is—wrecked. He didn’t even know he’d been making noise.

After a second, Sam’s hand closes, hiding the marks. “We can head north, it’ll be colder,” Sam says, quiet. Dean closes his eyes, weirdly relaxed. Sam’s weight shifts, on top of him, and the TV finally clicks off. In the silence, he can hear his own heart beating, can hear the steady rhythm of Sam’s breath. Sam’s dick drags against him, again, pushes down, and he shudders, a weird quivering that comes from his spine and trembles out through his muscles. He’s still half-tangled in his jeans, for god’s sake.

There’s a kiss pressed against the nape of his neck, on his shoulder. The weight pushes off of him, just for a few seconds, and his jeans do finally get tugged off his feet, leaving him just in his socks. There’s a thump of cloth and the jangle of a belt and then Sam’s back, naked now, heavy and sitting right back over the top of Dean’s thighs, trapping him against the bed. Dean’s chest relaxes further. He gets another kiss, this one right in the middle of his back, and then two big hands wrap around his wrists on either side, tighten slowly, harder and harder until his fingers curl helplessly.

“Okay?” Sam says, again. He doesn’t sound unsure at all, anymore.

Dean tries to shift, and can’t. Sam leans down, his chest flat against Dean’s back, heavy and solid and _there_ , undeniable, his dick slotted against Dean’s sore ass and his breathing slow and even, while Dean’s comes increasingly short. “Yeah,” he says, finally, voice thin, and his dick throbs where it’s trapped wet and small against the mattress. Sam leans his forehead against the back of Dean’s skull, rubs a thumb over the back of Dean’s hand. Dean smiles. “Yeah, Sammy, I’m good.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> [posted here on my tumblr if you'd like to reblog](http://zmediaoutlet.tumblr.com/post/170566297529/the-first-time-sam-was-able-to-successfully)


End file.
